Pro Patria Mori
by Pit Viper of Doom
Summary: All hell breaks loose stateside when an ambitious demon takes one Alfred F. Jones as a host. To save him, the nations must join forces with the Winchester brothers, who don't quite realize just how high the stakes are in this hunt.
1. Prologue

The moment he heard the footsteps behind him, he knew he was in trouble.

He had no real reason to think so; while it was unlikely for him to meet someone he didn't recognize on his own ground, it wasn't unheard of, nor was it particularly uncommon. Tourists were tourists.

Not a lot of tourists had shiny black eyes that took up the whole sockets, though.

Carefully, he turned to face the woman, trying to ignore the sudden nervous quickening of his heart. He knew he shouldn't be scared. He knew what she was, knew she had no reason to be here in an alley at night, looking at him with hungry eyes. She was in the wrong, not him. Getting scared in a situation like this wasn't something he did.

"What do you want?" he demanded, satisfied when his words came out clear and unwavering. It wouldn't do to make her think he was scared. Because he wasn't.

She picked her way through the alley toward him, as confident as a cat stalking a mouse. "He was right. You _are_ pretty fuckin' dim." Her voice was laced with a slight Cockney accent, out of place considering they were currently in California. He squinted at her, realizing he could recognize her if he looked hard enough. So she _was_ one of his. The accent threw him, but he supposed it wasn't really hers.

A pang of sadness struck him, but he forced it down.

"We have a deal, remember?" he growled, stepping back as she approached. "Non-interference. You leave us alone, we stay out of your boss's business." He grimaced distastefully. "I remember because I had to _make out with him_."

Her eyes, which had faded to a dull, muted gray, went black again. "It was a _stupid deal!_" she shrieked suddenly, and the air around her seemed to vibrate with her rage. "And I'm gonna show him that. When I show him... when I show him what I can do with you..." A twisted smile contorted her face. "He'll reward me. And we'll take all of you. Every single one."

He stood his ground, meeting black eyes with defiant blue. "Then come at me, bitch. You think I can't take you?"

Black eyes shone eagerly. "No, my dear. I don't think you can." Her hand shot out, and he slammed backward into the nearest wall, feeling the bricks crack as an invisible force crushed him against the unyielding surface. The back of his head throbbed, and something warm and wet trickled down the back of his neck. Pressure against his chest made it hard for him to inhale.

He waited, breathing in short gasps as the woman reached him unhurriedly. When she was within reach, he wrenched his right arm away from the wall and struck her in the jaw. She reeled with the blow, snarling gutturally in her throat as he shook off the crushing force and stepped away from the wall.

"I'm probably older than you, you know," he told her as he regained his breath. "You can't win this. And I'd really appreciate it if you _let her go_."

Her eyes were dull gray again, and downcast. "...Fine," she murmured. The woman's mouth opened, and a thick cloud of oily black smoke billowed out like toxic smog.

He had just dared to relax when he realized that the smoke, now free of its previous host, was heading straight for him. There was no time for him to flee before the noxious cloud was upon him, forcing itself into his eyes, nose, and mouth.

Later that night, earthquakes raged on the west coast. Hundreds died, with thousands soon to follow.


	2. Deal Broken

It started when the earthquakes came and America was absent at the world meeting. No one thought anything of it; he was probably helping with the disaster relief. No one even thought to call his boss to confirm.

Then the hurricanes struck the southeastern coast, and still no one heard from America. There must have been something wrong; two natural disasters within three days, and he hadn't even called anyone to complain about it? Almost unheard of.

It wasn't until earthquakes ravaged San Francisco and turned into fires – again – that someone finally gave his president a call, only to find that the nation had been missing since the first night.

Still, America was young, and God knew he could be imprudent and childish when he put his mind to it. With three natural disasters in a week, he was probably running around trying to fix everything by himself, or off somewhere sulking until it was over. Whatever it was, everyone agreed, it would blow over without their help.

Well, not everyone. None of the assembled nations noticed four among their number exchanging grim looks.

* * *

><p>"Dean?"<p>

The older Winchester raised his head groggily from the lumpy hotel pillow. "Yeah?" He blinked several times at Sam, who was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a bagel, poring over a newspaper. "Dude, are you reading a newspaper? Where'd you get that?"

"Gas station. Dean, you really should look at this."

Dean let his head fall back to the pillow and made no move to get up. "What is it?"

His half-closed eyes were fixed on the ceiling, but he could imagine his brother glaring at him in irritation. "Okay, look. Is it normal for three natural disasters to hit all across the United States, for stock prices to take a plunge, and for unemployment to go up five percent, all in the same week?"

Dean promptly sat up, only to go partially blind for a moment as blood rushed from his head. "Hell no." He paused. "Think it's the Leviathans?"

There was a moment of silence as Sam thought this over. "...I don't think so. So far Leviathans have been more interested in eating people than in screwing with the economy."

"Angry pagan gods?"

"Possible. But what kind of pagan god can make the stock market fall? It's not like they're good at keeping with the times."

Dean thought for a moment. "Demons, then."

"Except Crowley said he'd keep the demons off our backs while we dealt with the Leviathans."

"Well, yeah, but one, it's Crowley," Dean pointed out. "And two, we haven't been investing in the stock market or getting caught in any earthquakes. He never said he'd keep his demons from stirring up other kinds of shit."

"True, but I've still never heard of demons causing this scale of destruction. Not since we locked up Lucifer." He jerked his head up. "Wait, you don't think—"

"No," Dean snapped. "We would've heard about it if he got loose. Hell, Crowley would've come crying to us about it."

Sam ran his hand through his hair. "So basically, we have no idea what this could be."

"Nope." Dean got to his feet. "But Crowley might."

* * *

><p>Deep within the pits of Hell, Crowley leaned over his desk, propped himself up on his elbows, and rested his face in his hands with a deep sigh. Really. If he'd known just how much shit went into being King of Hell, he probably would have shunted the job to someone else. If he didn't have a psychotic angel with a Caligula complex threatening his existence, then he had two rather resilient mortal thorns in his side, or less resilient but no less irritating demonic thorns.<p>

But that was okay. He had gone in expecting that. (Perhaps not the first one, but he'd come out of it in one piece, hadn't he?) Then there were... the other ones. He hadn't been prepared for them.

Fuck, he was going to get so much shit for this.

As if on cue, Crowley felt an unfortunately familiar tugging in the pit of his stomach, and was promptly yanked from his tastefully furnished office, dragged vaguely upward, and deposited in the middle of a skillfully drawn and faintly glowing chalk circle.

In truth, he was actually overjoyed when he found himself in what looked like an abandoned warehouse, staring at a pair of familiar grim faces.

"Oh, thank fuck, it's you two," he commented, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of the Winchesters.

Sam regarded him suspiciously. "What do you mean by that?" he asked warily. "Who'd you think it was gonna be?"

"Doesn't matter," Dean broke in bluntly. "Do you know anything about the—"

The tugging sensation returned. Crowley had barely enough time for an "Oh, fuck me _sideways_," before he was whisked away once more.

He nearly listed to the side when he found himself on solid ground again, this time in the middle of a very well-kept sitting room. He managed to catch himself without stumbling, which was good. It wouldn't do to look foolish in front of anyone. Especially not the one who now stood before him, staring at him as coldly as Death himself.

The man was only a little taller than Crowley, with a mess of scruffy blond hair and vivid, moss-green eyes. Dressed in an oatmeal-colored cable-knit sweater vest over a neatly buttoned shirt, not to mention deceptively youthful-looking, he looked like just the sort of human that the King of Hell could squash between his thumb and forefinger. Except he wasn't human, and he was looking at Crowley like _he_ would be the one doing the squashing, if only his thumb and forefinger weren't already occupied with holding a cup of tea.

"Hello, Fergus," the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland greeted him smoothly.

"England," Crowley said brightly. "What a surprise. You, calling on the King of the Judeo-Christian Hell for a chat? You're usually so very pagan."

"Yes, well, _you're_ usually so very good about keeping your end of the deals you make," England retorted. "We had one, remember? I do. I had to _snog_ you for it."

"Yes, and it made me feel so warm and patriotic inside," said Crowley. "About the deal..."

"It was such a _nice_ deal, too," England went on, his voice calm. Crowley wasn't fooled; he'd spent enough time around the pure evil and unhinged to know when someone was just barely holding back unstoppable rage. "You keep your demons out of our affairs, and we keep the other nations, those who don't know of you, out of yours. I didn't realize it would be so _bloody difficult_."

"The only reason it was such an easy deal for you was because you had the _other two_ negotiate," Crowley growled.

"Not the point!" England snapped. "You broke it, Crowley! Don't try to deny it, either. I may be old, but I'm not blind – I can see what's happening in the United States. What the bloody _hell_ did you do?"

"I didn't approve it," the King of Hell said with a shrug. "In fact, I was very detail-oriented when I told my muppets what would happen if they disobeyed. But you know how underlings are. Always looking for a way to impress you. I assure you, once I have the demon responsible for this back in hell, I _will_ make an example of her." His eyes smoldered. "I don't like it when demons break their promises. I _really_ don't like it when they cause me to break one of mine."

England blinked. "Oh. Did I interrupt you, then? Are you planning on going after her?"

"Unfortunately, she has a particularly powerful vessel – and hostage, might I add – at the moment, in case you hadn't noticed," Crowley replied airily. "And she's dead set on getting my attention. Were I to show up at all, much less to try to stop her, she'd only speed things up to show off to me. I'm sure none of us want that."

"Then you're going to make us do it ourselves," England said flatly.

"Not at all. In fact, I happen to know a rather irritating pair of humans whose expertise will prove invaluable to you." He patted his pockets and pulled a paper napkin from one. "D'you have a pen?"

The stone-faced nation produced one from his shirt pocket and passed it to him. After scribbling two names, a phone number, and an address on the napkin, he handed both to England. "There you are. Give that number a ring, and that address is a good motel for you to meet them, if you'd like to do so by tonight. Better hurry, they tend to move around a lot."

England examined the napkin. "Anything else I ought to know?"

"She has friends. Might want to watch out for them."

England groaned in frustration.

"...D'you mind if I leave now?"

"...Fine. Thank you for your assistance, Fergus."

Crowley returned to the warehouse and was not surprised to see that the Winchesters hadn't left. The surprised looks on their faces when he reappeared were well worth the journey.

"Good news, boys, help's on the way," he said cheerfully. "When you get to California, make sure you stay at the Motel 6 in Redding. Oh, and don't mind the angry bloke with the massive eyebrows, he's always like that." With that, he returned to the safety of his office in Hell and dug around for his private stash of alcohol.

The Winchesters were annoying enough to deal with. These bloody nations, on the other hand, were enough to drive anyone mad.

* * *

><p>England stood staring at the faded magic circle for a moment. Fergus had been one of his, and he could never help feeling a bit responsible for how he'd turned out. At least he was helpful when it suited him, but the King of Hell was the King of Hell.<p>

With a sigh, the nation set his tea aside, pulled his phone from his pocket, and scrolled through his contacts list. His arms felt strangely leaden, so he simply dialed and put the call on speaker. It rang only once before it was picked up.

"This what I think it's about?" a familiar gravelly voice asked. "You wouldn't call me if it wasn't. Your loss, since I'm _awesome_."

England's voice was grim. "We have work to do."

Prussia scoffed. "Pfft, you call this work? I'd do this kind of shit for fun if I could. So how're we gonna play this?"

"I've been recommended a pair of hunters," England told him. "Plus, there's apparently more than one of those things gunning for us, so I was thinking that you and the Italy brothers may as well set up defenses around the other nations. I'll go and meet the hunters. When the three of you finish up, you find us, and we'll put an end to this mess."

"Oh, come on, you mean I have to _wait_ to join in the action?" Prussia complained. "Lame!" There was a pause before he went on grudgingly. "Makes sense, though, Mr. Church Of You. You wouldn't know proper religion if it bit you in the–"

"Piss off and pass it on," England snapped, and hung up. Slipping his phone back into his pocket, the old nation heaved a sigh.

"So," a quiet voice spoke up suddenly.

England's heart was in his throat as he turned around to see America standing in the doorway, staring at him with narrowed eyes.


	3. Work To Do

"What—what are you—?" England stammered. Oh God. America was here, in his house. What was he doing here? How long had he been here? Why had the demon come? England took a step back, fingertips tingling as he unconsciously prepared a spell—

"What are you doing, England?" another familiar voice asked. England jumped, turning his head a fraction. So startled by America's arrival was he that he hadn't even noticed he wasn't alone.

"Japan?" he said incredulously, taking in the sight of the stone-faced nation. His heart twisted with dread. If America was here, and Japan was with him, then that meant they'd been too slow, and one of the other demons had...

Wait.

England blinked, looking at America again and taking in the hair that was slightly too long, the eyes that were more indigo than blue, the flyaway strand of hair that curled outward instead of the short lock that stood straight up, and the small white bear at his feet.

"_Oh_," he breathed. "It's just you, Canada. And Japan. Thank... thank _God_..." His relief was immense, but short-lived. "W-wait, how long have you—"

"We have been here the whole time," Japan replied, his voice deceptively calm. "We wanted to ask you if you'd heard from America. You left your door unlocked, and we heard you casting a spell."

For a moment England could only stare at them, his heart plummeting. "Oh." His throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously. "Y-you heard all that, then."

"Yeah, we did." Canada took a step forward, his eyes glinting. "Just... just when were you planning on telling me?" Japan stood back and kept silent, but his dark eyes remained fixed on England's.

"I, ah," England faltered, caught between Canada's anger and Japan's calm yet unnervingly piercing stare.

"Were you ever planning to tell me – us – at all?" his former colony demanded, voice rising.

"You have to understand—"

"No!" Canada cut him off sharply. "We don't! America's in danger, and you didn't even _say_ anything!" His voice resounded in the room like a gunshot. "You just let us assume that he was off somewhere panicking or having a sulk, or, or... God _damn_ it, England!"

"America is one of the closest friends I have, England-san," Japan added, his voice as mellow as ever. England could only guess at how angry he was. "I had a right to know as well."

"You two weren't a part of the deal we made," England informed them. "I didn't want you or anyone else getting involved with this."

"Getting invol—He's my _brother!_" Canada burst out. "You raised us together! I live right above him! I'm involved whether you like it or not! And you didn't think I'd need to know that he's in trouble and he needs help? Oh, no, wait," he spat, looking at England scornfully. "That's not it, is it? You just forgot I was there, didn't you? Like you always do?"

"Neither of you have any experience with the kind of power we're up against!" England said firmly.

"How many historical buildings do I have to burn down before you all start taking me seriously?" Canada demanded. "I would've thought that one was enough! And—"

Japan rested his hand on Canada's shoulder, halting his tirade. The younger nation twitched at the touch, before shutting his eyes and breathing deeply as if to calm himself. England waited for a few moments before Canada opened his eyes and let out a short huff of breath. "This is pointless. Just let us help you, England." He stared levelly at his former guardian, not asking or requesting, but telling.

"Let us help _him_," Japan amended.

England was silent for a while, staring at his resolute former colony. So far only the Italy brothers, Prussia, himself, and two humans he'd never met before were America's only chance. As much as he hated to drag the uninvolved into this mess, both of them had a point. He sighed. "Iron," he said finally. "Holy water. Rock salt."

Japan blinked. "What?"

"That's what you'll need. And a _lot_ of holy water. It tends to run out quickly."

Canada nodded, mouthing the words to himself. "Got it. Wait, you said you were going to leave now to meet those hunters you mentioned?"

England ran his hand through his hair. "Yes, the Winchesters. I don't know how much Crowley's told them, so I need to make sure. If we can get this done without revealing our true nature to them, so much the better."

"But you also said that there are other demons looking to attack nations?" Canada pressed. There was a strange determined light in his eyes, as if he had a very, very bad idea that he fully intended to see through. Even Japan was giving him a curious look.

"...Yes," England replied uncertainly.

"So they'll probably be hanging around Europe, where there're more countries to go after, which is why the Italies and Prussia are hanging around here to watch over things, right?"

"Er, correct..."

And if just one of them succeeds, the problem's doubled."

"True, but—"

"And you have more experience with this, plus magic, you said so yourself."

"What are you getting at, Canada?" England asked finally.

Canada locked eyes with him. "Let me go instead."

"What?" England yelped, Japan echoing him barely a beat behind.

"You, the Italies, and Prussia clearly know more about demon-proofing than I do," Canada told him. "If you help them then it gets done faster, even more so if Japan helps you, and that leaves me free to go meet the Winchesters. I can tell them what they need to know, leave out what they don't need to know. You handle the demons, I handle the humans."

The older nation stared at him. "You do realize the amount of holes in that argument, I hope?"

"England," Canada said, quietly but emphatically. "_Please_. He's my brother."

"He's mine, too," England reminded him.

"No, he's not," Canada retorted flatly. "You haven't seen him as a brother for more than two hundred years, and you know it."

England recoiled slightly, taken aback by Canada's blunt denial. "I – I don't know what you mean by that," he said, as his face grew uncomfortably warm.

"Of course you don't," Canada muttered. Japan glanced back and forth between the two, looking slightly confused.

"Canada." England waited until his former colony was looking him in the eye. "Whatever you may think, I helped raise you, and I've always thought of you as a brother." Canada snorted, and guilt made England's stomach turn. "I honestly don't know what I'd do if something were to happen to you."

"No, see, that's another upside to sending me," Canada broke in bitterly. "No one'll notice if anything happens to _me_."

"You're wrong, Canada," England replied. He said it calmly, blandly, as one would state an obvious fact. The sky is blue, grass grows upward, and Canada is wrong. "And the last thing I want is for you to rush off to certain death on your own."

"Then you need not worry about that," Japan broke in.

"Why not?" England asked doubtfully.

"I will go with him."

Canada jerked his head around to stare at Japan in surprise. "Uh, what?" England could understand his surprise; Japan barely even knew he existed, and now he was offering to follow him into a supernatural war zone?

England made one last attempt to protest. "Japan, you—"

"I have battled with _oni_, England," Japan told him calmly. "I once stole the _hoshi no tama_ from a _kitsune_ and won a favor for its return. When I was young, I looked into the eyes of Yuki-onna herself and lived to tell of it." He shrugged lightly. "Perhaps one day I will be able to see them again. Until then, my blindness to my own legends does not make me helpless against yours."

Outnumbered, England slumped his shoulders. "I...fine. I'll send you where you need to go." He frowned at them. "But first, you two are poorly equipped. Japan, that katana you keep around wouldn't happen to be made of iron, would it?"

* * *

><p>There had been a time, once, when Sam's favorite part about hunting was the long road trips. It was great; nothing but him, his brother, and the open road. Sometimes he could sit back and pretend they were going somewhere normal, like Yosemite or the Grand Canyon.<p>

The first thing to change this had been the loss of the Impala. Well, they hadn't really lost it; it was safely locked up and hidden. But the point was that Dean was not driving his "baby", and as long as he was not driving his baby, he seemed to emanate displeasure like a small cloud of pollution.

The second thing to change this was when Dean decided he needed to take a leak. In the middle of nowhere.

"Can't you hold it?" Sam demanded, even as his brother was stepping out of the driver's side. "We'll be in the next town in fifteen minutes!"

"Nature calls, Sammy."

"We stopped at a gas station a half an hour ago!"

"I didn't have to go then!" Dean retorted.

"What are you, five?" There was no reply from his brother, other than the sound of a zipper.

Sam heaved a sigh, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the dashboard. They were wasting time, and not two hours away from Redding, California, where they were supposed to find a hotel for the night. At least according to Crowley. Sam dearly hoped they weren't walking into a trap.

This possibility soon became the least of Sam's worries, when the entire car around him began to shake violently. His forehead banged painfully against the dash, but he managed to sit up and look around, bracing his hands against the door and the dashboard as the shaking continued.

Outside, Dean was swearing as he simultaneously staggered for balance and struggled to zip himself up. It would have been funny if Sam hadn't taken that moment to look in the rear-view mirror.

Oh, boy. If this was a demon-induced earthquake, then clearly this demon knew his Superman movies.

"Uh, Dean?" he called. "Get in the car." He paused, watching as a dark, gaping fissure gradually split the road behind them. "Dean, get in the damn car!"

Moments later, Dean was throwing himself into the drivers seat, still swearing, as the huge crevice came closer and closer.

"Drive, damn it!" Sam shouted.

"I know, shut up!" Dean started the car and immediately floored the gas pedal before he'd finished shutting the door, and the vehicle shot forward just as the tip of the crack was about to reach them. The infernal shaking made driving in a straight line impossible, but despite this they managed to leave the fissure far behind.

A full twenty seconds passed before the earthquake stopped, and the brothers exchanged wide-eyed looks. An earthquake of that magnitude, in the middle of nowhere, with a fissure opening perfectly in line with the road, and no other motorists in sight? That one had been meant for them.

Dean eased up on the gas pedal and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. "Jesus Christ."

"I hate this job already," Sam remarked. "Let's just get to Redding and see what Crowley wants."

His older brother sat up again. "What makes you think he'll be there? If he wanted to tell us anything himself, he would have back at the warehouse. He's not usually the meet-me-here type. He just shows up, mouths off, and leaves. Which he's already done." Dean drummed his fingers lightly against the wheel. "Plus he mentioned something about help, and an angry guy with massive eyebrows, so... sounds like he's sending someone to do his dirty work. Which is normal."

"Yeah, but usually he's sending _us_," Sam pointed out. "Or demons."

"Or both," Dean reminded him. "Probably what's happening here."

A stray thought occurred to Sam. "Except..."

"What?"

"If it was a demon, or more than one, would he specify something about their appearance?" Sam asked. "Like eyebrows? They possess people. They could look like anyone."

Dean opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by his cell phone ringing. The two of them exchanged wary glances. "I'm driving," Dean said finally. "Get that for me, will you?"

Cautiously, Sam placed the call on speaker so that his brother could hear. "...Hello?"

He didn't recognize the voice that answered. "Dean Winchester?"

"That's me," Dean grunted.

"Fair enough." Whoever it was, he was male, British, and incredibly sure of himself. "I'll get straight to the point. I require your assistance, and you require mine. Simple, really."

"We'd love to help with whatever it is, but the United States are kind of being torn apart right now," Dean answered with forced politeness. "We have priorities."

"Excellent," the caller replied. "You're already on the same page, then. We are fully aware of the situation, and we know how to solve it. However, we could use experienced hunters on our side, and the two of you were... recommended."

"Well that's convenient," Dean said dryly. "Who are you again?"

"My name is Arthur Kirkland," was the curt reply. "Two friends of mine will meet you when you reach your hotel. The room is already paid for." There was a pause, and the caller let out a sigh and went on crossly. "You do not trust me, and you have no reason to trust me. But there are many, many lives at stake, so I would appreciate it if you cooperated. We don't want anything from you but your help, understand?"

"You say 'we'," Sam broke in. "Who else besides you? Are you with Crowley, or...?"

"No," Kirkland told him flatly. "We're unfortunate enough to have dealt with him before, though."

"An organization, then?"

"You could say that," Kirkland answered, without actually answering anything. "You'll understand if we want to keep our secrets, won't you? With the sort of life you live, I'll bet you have plenty."

Both brothers scowled.

"...That was tactless. I rather don't care at the moment. Good day to you both, and if you shoot them, I will _not_ be happy."

The call went dead. Dean kept his eyes fixed on the road, but it was clear where his head was at the moment.

"Well that cleared up nothing," he growled.

"Go in armed?" Sam suggested.

"Don't we always?"


	4. First Impressions

France was trying to sleep, thank you very much.

He'd set his phone on vibrate so that he could sleep through all calls without being yelled at for having his phone off, because honestly no one had any concept of time zones these days. Unfortunately it managed to vibrate right off his nightstand, rousing the nation by thudding loudly on the floor. Grumbling under his breath, France fumbled for his phone and squinted to check his latest text.

Royal blue eyes flew wide with shock.

_need ur help france. come over quick. dont ask, just stfu and get here. USA_

His grammar was atrocious but unmistakable, France noted with a slight satisfied grin. England would be so _pissed_ when he found out that his precious former colony had gone to _France_ for help. Might as well see what the boy wanted; when this was over, he'd never need any other reason to rub England's nose in his obvious superiority.

It was nice that America was asking for his help, though. Just like old times.

* * *

><p>By the time Dean pulled into the motel parking lot, the sky was already pitch-black hours before it should have been. The lot was nearly empty, which Sam knew his brother was probably glad for (all the best spaces were vacant), but that, along with the premature darkness and the quiet, tense mood of the few people in the lobby made for an off-putting atmosphere. The middle-aged blonde behind the desk was all smiles as she handed them a card key to room 103 and informed them that "the rest of their party" had already arrived, but neither Winchester was fooled. She was nervous, and rightly so. Natural disasters in several major regions, a failing economy (well, failing even more so than usual), soaring crime rates, and general weirdness didn't make for a pretty picture of the United States.<p>

"We don't know what's waiting for us in there," Dean murmured as they approached the door marked 103. "Ready?"

Sam nodded, feeling the blade of the demon-killing knife resting against his forearm in his sleeve, the handle tucked into his palm. (The nice thing about that knife was that, unlike holy water and salt, it worked on other things, too.) Pausing a split second to steel himself, Dean unlocked the door and opened it. Sam followed him in, keeping close to his brother's back as he looked to see who was waiting for them inside.

There was only one man in the room – no, wait, there were two. Sam wasn't sure how he'd missed the second one; they were sitting side by side at the table with backpacks at their feet, in full view of the door. Both of them glanced up at the Winchesters' arrival, and for a moment the separate pairs seemed to size one another up.

The first man, Sam found... vaguely unnerving. He was Asian, possibly Japanese, and looked to be a few years younger than Sam himself. The unnerving part was that his face was completely devoid of emotion, with cold brown eyes and an expression that might as well have been carved from solid rock. Dressed in dark hooded jacket, with what Sam could only assume to be a sheathed katana balanced across his lap, he looked like a ninja in street clothes.

The second... Sam couldn't help but stare, because the first thing he noticed about the kid was the small white bear curled up in his lap. Beyond that, he was dirty blond, bespectacled, and looked small and skinny with his baggy blue hoodie and wide, dark blue eyes. He couldn't have been older than eighteen or nineteen, and looked entirely harmless, despite the iron crowbar he was holding.

Looks could be deceiving, though.

The tense moment lasted only a couple of seconds before the man in black stood, his sword clutched loosely in one hand. "You are the Winchesters?" he asked in heavily-accented English.

"Yeah," Dean grunted, as neutral as he could ever sound. "Who're you?"

"Arthur Kirkland sent us," the kid spoke up in a subdued voice. The bear sat up in his lap, and Sam eyed it warily, wondering why, of all the pets in the world, the kid had chosen that.

"He informed us that he would call you," the man added.

"Didn't answer my question," Dean replied shortly.

The man nodded, apparently not put off by Dean's blunt manner. "My name is Kiku Honda," he said formally.

"Matthew Williams," the kid piped up. He looked down at the bear in his lap. "This is... um..." He blinked. "Kuma... Kumabaro? No, Kumajiro. That's it."

"...Right." Dean crossed his arms. "So what can we do for you?"

"This is _your_ country," Matthew Williams told them, absently stroking the bear's head. "You know what's been going on, eh. We need your help stopping it."

"And you know how to stop it?" Sam spoke up finally. It wasn't really a question; Kirkland had mentioned that they did.

Kiku Honda beckoned them over to the table. Warily, the two brothers complied. "There is a demon behind this," he informed them. "The solution is quite simple; if it is exorcised and sent back to Hell where it came from, then everything will be fixed."

He was either lying, hiding something, or had no idea what he was talking about, Sam decided. The kind of problems that could be solved simply by exorcising a demon usually amounted to mysterious gory deaths, not wide-scale destruction and economic downturn.

"It can't be that simple," Dean argued, echoing Sam's thoughts. "What level demon is it? If it's capable of this scale of destruction, the weapons we have might not even work on it."

"Arthur says it's a normal one," Matthew offered, leaning forward in his chair. "Look, we can't go into detail, but as long as we get this demon back to Hell, we're good. But..." He bit his lip.

And here it was. The reason why this job would be as far from a walk in the park as any job could get.

"There are a few more demons who are... capable of this level of devastation," Kiku told them grimly. "Mr. Kirkland and another of our allies are hopefully taking the necessary steps to stop them, but we do not know exactly where they are, or what other places they might target." His unreadable brown eyes met both brothers' in turn. "In addition, Mr. Kirkland suspects that demons who were not otherwise involved may take advantage of the chaos to run wild."

"Gotta watch out for them, then," Sam muttered, half to himself. He went on, addressing their two visitors. "But you say you need us to exorcise one demon, who's behind all of this, right?"

"No, we just need your help trapping and containing it, and holding off the other demons," Matthew corrected. "A couple of our friends will be here soon, and they'll handle the exorcism."

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. This was a new one. "We've been ganking demons for going on seven years," Dean informed him. "We can handle it."

"It is a delicate situation," said Kiku. "And the allies that Mr. Williams spoke of... well, they have been doing this for longer than seven years. We do not mean to offend."

Great. That wasn't ominous at all. "Do you at least know who the host is?" Sam asked. "So we know who to look for?"

"Yes." Matthew drew a black iPhone from the front pocket of his sweatshirt, brought up a picture, and offered it to Dean. "Him. Alfred Jones."

Dean took the phone and held it up so that Sam could see the photograph. In it, a blond young man with wire-rimmed glasses and a smile that would not have been out of place in a Listerine ad lounged on a barstool and raised a shotglass in a toast to the camera. Sam couldn't help but glance back and forth between the phone and its owner. The kid in the photo had shorter hair, and his eyes were a slightly lighter shade of blue, but other than that he was a dead ringer for the young man before them.

"That looks exactly like you," Dean told the kid bluntly.

"I get that a lot," Matthew said quietly, casting his eyes downward. "He's my twin brother."

Sam and Dean looked at each other again. In spite of himself, Sam felt his heart soften, and when he turned back to the kid, he was feeling a bit more sympathetic. "Your last names...?"

"We were raised separately at first," Matthew explained. "It's complicated."

"Alfred is a very good friend of mine," Kiku added. "And Mr. Kirkland... he might not admit it, but he only wants him safe. We all do."

"We'll do what we can, but..." Sam hesitated. It wouldn't be good to get their hopes up. "Look, in this kind of situation, the host may never be the same." He swallowed. "That's if he survives. I'm not going to lie, sometimes we have to—"

Matthew's hand shot out, seizing Sam's arm is a vicelike grip. "Alfred can't die," he said, his voice rising slightly in volume.

Sam shook his head at his brother, who had stepped forward as if to remove Matthew's hand by any means necessary. The kid was scared, it was understandable. "Look," Sam said calmly. "I promise we'll do what we can. But the host doesn't always make it."

"Williams," Kiku spoke up suddenly. He laid his hand on Matthew's wrist, and the boy let go of Sam's arm. "We both knew it might be unavoidable."

"No, Honda, that's not what I meant–" For a moment Matthew dropped his voice, and muttered something to Kiku that Sam couldn't quite catch.

"_Williams-san!_" Kiku hissed, silencing the younger man. Recovering himself quickly, he inclined his head slightly in Sam's direction. "We know you will do all you can. We would prefer it if he lived, though."

Dean was glaring daggers at both of them. "Is there _anything_ else you can tell us?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"Mr. Williamsthinks that this demon might be planning to kill him once she is finished..." Kiku paused, and for a split second a look of distaste crossed his face. It was the first real expression Sam had seen on him, and it vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. "...once she is finished _playing_ with him, is how Kirkland put it." Beside him, Matthew shuddered. "We are not sure what her motives are, but..." He stopped there, shaking his head.

Sam leaned forward, frustrated. Why did they always cut off when they were about to say something important? "No no, but what? What were you going to say?"

"It's nothing," Matthew broke in.

"Don't you friggin' tell us it's nothing," Dean snapped. "It's _never_ nothing. What the hell do you two know about this?"

"There are things that we are not at liberty to say," Kiku told him firmly. "You may keep your own secrets, but please let us keep ours."

"If you're trying to get us to trust you, you're doing a crappy job," Dean went on. "'Cause every time someone keeps a secret from us, people get killed."

"We're not asking you to like us or trust us, we're asking you to help us," Matthew said quietly, hugging his bear to his chest. He looked both of them in the eye, first Dean, then Sam. "I just want to save my brother. Can't you understand that? Look, once we're done with this, we'll leave, and you'll never have to see us again. But until then, we need you, and if you want to fix this, you need us. So we're just going to have to work together and live with it."

Not for the first time that night, Sam and Dean exchanged glances. _This is going to suck ass in every way possible, and I can't wait for it to be over,_ Dean's expression said. Sam couldn't help but agree.

Kiku cleared his throat politely. "If you feel the need to sleep in shifts so that one of you is watching us at all times, we will not be insulted. Unnecessary, but entirely understandable."

Sam inwardly shrugged. Years of hunting made them light sleepers; they'd handled far worse before.

* * *

><p>"Williams-kun, with all due respect," Jzpan murmured under his breath, too softly for the Winchesters to hear. "Are you a complete idiot?"<p>

"I'm not being an idiot," Canda grumbled back.

"You used the nation-tongue in front of them." Japan's whisper was barely audible.

"I didn't want them to know what I was saying, I don't speak Japanese, and you don't speak French."

"If you use a language that they don't know exists, you will give us away," Japan pointed out.

Canada practically mouthed his next words. "Honda, if Al dies, he'll just come back, and that'll give us away anyway." Abruptly he dropped his secretive mutter. "Now can we stop whispering like this? We're not exactly inspiring confidence."

"Got that right," Dean remarked from across the room. For a moment the four of them looked at each other again, the nations calm and considering, the humans wary and suspicious.

Japan heaved a sigh and rubbed his eyes. If they weren't careful, this utter lack of trust would cost his friend his life. It could cost them all their lives.

He fervently hoped that Italy would arrive soon.

* * *

><p><strong>Bored yet? Don't worry, the action'll come pretty soon.<strong>


	5. First Blood

At the sound of a key card sliding in the lock, for a wild moment Japan wondered if his brief plea to no one in particular had been answered. Then he remembered that England had told them to wait a day for the Italy brothers to arrive, that setting up defenses and surveillance for the whole world would take time. Smoothly he slipped into a more balanced stance, gripping the handle of his katana. Around him, the two humans had turned to face the door, Canada's hand was straying to his iron crowbar, and Kumajiro was on all fours, eyes fixed on the door as it opened.

Japan's eyes widened, and he immediately straightened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam glance at him curiously.

Blond hair, normally silk-smooth and well kept, fell over the man's face in damp tangles. His rumpled shirt was half-tucked, the sleeves rolled up to hide the tears, and his hands and arms were scuffed and dirty. Despite his uncharacteristically messy appearance, he was unmistakable.

"Matthew!" France exclaimed, blinking in surprise. "You're not – what are you doing here?"

Canada was staring at him in shock. "Francis? I could ask you the same thing! How did you even get in here?" Japan stole a glance at the hunters. Dean looked suspicious, which Japan was coming to understand was nothing unusual, while Sam simply looked thoughtful, also not unusual from what he'd seen so far. Luckily, they seemed to have relaxed – more or less.

"You could've told us there were more of you coming tonight," Dean grumbled.

"He's not supposed to be here," Canada murmured, still staring at Francis in a mixture of relief and uncertainty. At his feet, Kumajiro growled nervously.

"He is a friend of ours, Francis Bonnefoy," Japan explained to the hunters. He turned back to the disheveled nation, belatedly remembering to let go of his katana. "Why are you here, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

France ran his hand through his tangled blond hair. "Alfred sent me a text," he explained. "He said he needed help, told me to come to California. When I came, these... things..."

"Demons," Canada murmured.

"_Oui_. They attacked me." A shudder ran through France's entire body. "I barely got away."

"How'd you know where we are?" Dean demanded.

"Oh, Matthew's phone has GPS," France replied. "I located it on the Internet."

Canada gave him an incredulous look. "That's only if you know my email password!"

France shrugged innocently. "Well... Anyway, when I got here, I convinced the woman at the front desk to tell me what room you were in, and I, ahem, _borrowed_ the master key from the maid." He sighed. "But that's not the point. I was lured into a trap. I shouldn't be here. I'm not even sure what's going on."

In the heavy silence that followed, Japan observed the reactions of the others. Canada was staring at France in a mixture of relief and pity, Kumajiro was silent at his feet, and the Winchester brothers seemed to be conferring with one another simply by exchanging meaningful glances. Dean looked annoyed, while Sam simply looked resigned.

Finally, Canada went forward and hugged France, rocking back slightly when the older man returned the gesture. "It's okay, France," he assured him, voice muffled slightly. "We'll let Arthur know, and he'll get you back home safe, eh?"

France sighed. "Does it _have_ to be Arthur?"

Canada hesitated. "Uh...Yes."

"Finally someone who likes the guy just as much as I do," Dean muttered, as if he thought no one could hear him.

"Fine," France said resignedly. "Anything to go home. _Merci_, Matthew." He pulled away, only to list backward. Canada steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. "_Pardon_, I'm just tired, that's all. I've been running for a long time."

Japan turned to the Winchesters. "Do you two mind taking one bed?"

"Guess we're gonna have to," Sam replied with a shrug. Then, addressing Francis for the first time, he asked, "You're not hurt, are you?"

France blinked. "_Quoi? _Oh. No, I am... I'm fine." He closed his mouth as if unwilling to say more on the subject. Canada nudged him toward the bed, and he collapsed onto it gratefully. Within minutes he was snoring, without having bothered with blankets.

"If Bonnefoy-san takes the bed, I will happily sleep in a chair," Japan said lightly.

"I don't think he's in any condition to sleep-grope you," said Canada , ignoring the stares the Winchesters sent his way.

"I will leave that gamble to you, Williams-kun."

* * *

><p>Pitch-black eyes opened in the dark.<p>

After a moment, they blinked, and the blackness cleared to royal blue. Slowly, their owner raised his head from the pillow and froze. When the sleeping form beside him did not stir, he craned his neck to see the clock on the nightstand.

Not a single muscle twitched as he took in the glowing red letters. 3 a.m. All around, gentle snores and soft, even breathing filled the air.

The corners of his mouth twitched, and he moved smoothly, catlike, until he had raised himself to a sitting position. Still, the others slept on uninterrupted. A slow smile spread across his face as he took a moment to watch them, satisfied.

Fools.

Next to him, the one called Matthew sprawled on his back, the sleeping white bear cuddling against his side. He'd been surprised to find this one with them; _she_ had been under the impression that he didn't know about demons, that he was still on his home turf. Well, what the fuck ever. Either way, she wanted this one next, and Francis, or at least the thing currently wearing him, had always been a follower. It'd be easy; just a little pressure on the right spot on the throat, and Matthew would be safely unconscious. He could kill the bear if it came to that, or even if it didn't. Never hurt to be safe.

Carefully, because if the kid woke now then it would all be over, the thing that was not France brought his hand closer to Canada's neck. So intent was he on his goal that he missed the flash of ursine teeth in the dark.

Indigo eyes opened wide, and a knife blade slipped from Matthew's sweatshirt sleeve and plunged into his outstretched palm. The thing that was not France recoiled with a scream as the cold iron burned in the wound.

The cry woke everyone. Before him, Canada sat upright, shaking drops of blood from his hand where the bear had roused him with a bite.

"I should have known," Canada told him, wide-eyed and angry. "He calls me _Mathieu_, stupid."

* * *

><p>Japan cursed himself silently. Like a fool, he'd assumed he would sleep lightly enough to awaken if anything went wrong. And France – he should have seen that something wasn't right. He had fought with France before, fought against him, had known him for decades. But no, so desperate was he for things to go right, he'd ignored any clues he might have detected. He'd let his guard down.<p>

On the humans' side of things, Sam Winchester was the closest, and lunged at France with a knife in his hand. The demon leapt back to avoid him, seeming to have forgotten that Japan was behind him. Swiftly, the nation made his move and pounced, catching him in a headlock. He was small, but he was strong, and he could probably hold France still long enough for the demon to be exorcised.

Japan's teeth clacked together as France thrashed violently, displaying ferocious strength. The powerful movement nearly flung him off, but he clung like a limpet. He wished he had drawn his tantou before he'd grabbed France; if he reached for it now, he'd lose his grip for sure.

This was a really bad night for him, wasn't it?

Before he could continue that thought, a hard, cruel hand gripped him around the neck. Japan held on as tightly as he could, but he was roughly torn from his perch and flung straight into Sam as the latter was getting ready to attack again. Right before Japan collided with the human, he saw Sam toss the knife to his brother, just as France went for Canada with an animal snarl.

Hunter and nation tumbled to the ground together, and Japan couldn't help but cringe in sympathy when he heard the loud thud of Sam's head striking the floor. (Though, to the human's credit, he took no more time in getting up than Japan.) Kumajiro had placed himself between his master and the demon, only to be flung aside like a beaten dog. France grabbed hold of Canada and looked ready to make for the door with him when Dean confronted him, knife in hand.

Canada froze in his struggle. "No, _wait!_" Too late; by the time the words left his mouth, Dean was already pulling the knife from France' middle.

Japan watched, wide-eyed, as France stepped back, mouth opening wide in a noiseless scream. White light blazed in his chest, in his mouth, and in his eyes, before flickering and going out. Without a sound, he crumpled to the floor, eyes open and unblinking.

* * *

><p>Sam had been in this line of work for seven years straight now. He'd seen terrible things, he'd had his fair share of loss (<em>Jessica, Dad, Jo and Ellen, Cas, Bobby...<em>), and he'd literally been to Hell and back. But he would not get jaded. God help him if he let himself get jaded (and God hadn't been much help for a while now).

That was why he was glad that, when Matthew dropped to Francis' side with a strangled cry of dismay, he felt that painful little hitch of sympathy inside. He wasn't numb yet.

If Dean felt the same, then he was good at hiding it. "We should go," his brother said, already grabbing his bag. "Right now. I don't think that was loud enough to wake anybody up, but I am _not_ sleeping in the same room as a corpse if I don't have to."

"Dean," Sam warned.

His brother seemed to catch himself. "Sorry," he mumbled, half to Sam and half to Matthew. "There wasn't enough time–"

"It's fine." Matthew's voice was small and quiet. "Just... do you mind...?"

Sam hesitated. "...Sure. We'll meet you by the car. It's the green minivan." Sam gave his brother a meaningful glance and jerked his head toward the door. In doing so, he missed the equally significant look that passed between Matthew and Kiku.

* * *

><p>Canada waited until the door had shut behind the Winchesters and Japan before he slipped his arms beneath France and dragged him up onto the bed. Once there, he let Francis' head rest in the crook of his elbow. He was trembling from head to foot, still shaken from watching his former caretaker die.<p>

"C'mon, Francis," he whispered, his voice a barely audible whimper. "Wake up. You have to wake up, I don't have much time. _Please_, Francis."

"Hey you," Kumajiro called quietly from the floor. "I'll listen and smell at the door, okay?"

Canada nodded distractedly and lifted France slightly, changing the lifeless nation's position until his head rested against Canada's chest. Gently, he placed his hand over France' heart. "Please wake up, France. _Please_."

Beneath his searching fingertips, he felt a heartbeat, and he unconsciously let out a sigh of relief. France stirred in his arms. Royal blue eyes snapped open.

The first breath frightened him. It was long, and difficult, and it rattled horribly in France's throat, as if the nation had forgotten how to breathe.

It wasn't supposed to be like that. Not after such a quick death.

Some sixth sense made Canada move his hand from France's chest to his mouth, and he was glad of it; it muffled the other nation's scream just in time.

"You have to be quiet!" he said urgently. France struggled blindly in his arms, the scream turning to panicked whimpering. Canada swallowed the lump in his throat, ignored the tears burning in his eyes, and cradled the older nation close to his chest. "Francis, it's okay, it's me! Don't scream. Please don't scream. I'm here. I'm here, okay?" He rocked slightly as France slowly stopped fighting him. "That's it. That's it, France. It's all right. The demon's gone. It's dead. You're okay."

He took his hand from France's mouth, and the frightened nation took a deep, shuddering breath.

"_M-Mathieu_." France reached up and grasped the front of Canada's sweatshirt. "It... it didn't... did it hurt you?"

"I'm fine, France. Not a scratch."

France took another deep breath. "_Dieu merci_ . It... it wanted to... Mathieu, _what is going on?_"

Canada explained as quickly as he could. "Demons. One of 'em got to Alfred, that's why things are messed up. England sent me and Japan ahead, later we'll meet up and fix this." Instinctively he brushed France' hair out of his face. "But that's not important. Listen, you need to get yourself out of here. However you came here, just get out the same way."

"It wanted you," Francesaid abruptly. "I... I heard it, or felt it, or..." He paused and let out a huff of breath. "I don't know. But it makes more sense now, what it was thinking. Something about 'when she's done'..." Realization sparked in his eyes. "Mathieu, whoever's doing this... when she's done with Alfred, she wants you."

"I'll be fine," Canada assured him. "Look, I'll leave you with some stuff. Demons... they can't cross salt, and holy water and iron burn them. I have plenty. I can give you some, and you can get home safe, eh?"

"Mathieu," France said quietly. He released Canada's sweatshirt and raised his hand to cup the side of his face instead. "They're after you. I'm not going anywhere."

"We have _humans_ with us," Canada protested. "They think you're dead, Francis. You can't just–"

"_Mon cher_, it is sweet of you to worry," France interrupted with a small smile. "I will follow at a distance. But I will follow you. You know you can't really stop me, so why try?"

Canada opened his mouth to reply.

"Your friend is coming," Kumajiro spoke up suddenly. "Not the humans. The other one. Japan."

Canada was about to ask his pet why he remembered Japan's name but not his when a key card slid into the lock, and Japan stepped into the room. "Is he awake?" the island asked immediately.

"_Oui_," France answered, struggling into a sitting position. His hands shook, but he had recovered quickly. "Mathieu says you don't have much time, so listen. When that... that thing was in my head, I heard it thinking things. I couldn't catch everything, but there was something about how 'she' was moving north, to be close to the 'next one'."

Japan looked to Canada grimly. "That is you, isn't it? The demon that has America plans to take you next."

Realization struck. "Now that that other demon's dead," Canada pointed out, feeling a flash of guilt when France shifted uncomfortably, "None of them know I'm not on my own land. That might be an advantage. I'm not sure, but..." His voice trailed off. "France, are you sure you won't leave?"

"I am certain, Mathieu."

Canada went to his backpack, opened it, and set four iron knives and two plastic bottles of holy water on the table. "These burn demons," he explained. "They won't kill them, but... it's better than nothing. If I need to, I'll text you where we're going. Stay close, but not too close, or the Winchesters might get suspicious. And try to stay out of sight, if possible, eh? You're safer if they think you're dead."

France stood. He was a bit shaky at first, but he shifted his stance and found his balance. "Canada. I will be fine. I won't get caught again, I promise."

With a sigh, Canada closed his backpack and shouldered it. "You better keep it, France."

As Canada started for the door, France stopped him just long enough to press his lips against his temple. "I will, _mon cher_. Good luck."


	6. Across the Atlantic

Spain hummed quietly to himself as he crouched in his garden and carefully weeded, hands shielded from the plant's bristling stalks by thick garden gloves. He paused for a moment and wiped his forehead on his jacket sleeve, taking in the bright green of his flourishing tomato plant and the unripe fruit that hung from it. His tomatoes would be ready in a matter of weeks, and as long as the snails stayed away, he could foresee a good crop of them. He'd have to send some to Romano, of course.

Reaching to tug a nettle from the soil, Spain paused again. He was in his backyard and the phone was unplugged, but he'd left the back door open in case the doorbell rang. As it was, he could hear the hollow pounding of a fist on wood. Someone was at the door.

Spain stood up and ran inside to answer it, shedding his gloves and leaving them on the kitchen table. He'd tracked dirt on the rug, but he could deal with that later.

The nation opened the door so abruptly that the visitor's fist smacked him in the chest. "Romano!" Spain cried delightedly, heedless of the accidental punch. "What brings you here?"

Romano's fist connected with his chest again, this time a bit more intentionally. "Goddammit, you stupid bastard!" he yelled. "Either pick up your fucking phone or answer your door faster!"

"But Romanito, I was tending the tomatoes in the garden," Spain explained, massaging his ribs. "Just like last week, and you weren't nearly as upset then."

Romano bristled. _Dios mio, he's so cute when he's angry_, Spain thought, even as his former charge was grabbing a fistful of his shirt.

"Idiot!" Romano snarled. "Don't take so long next time, or I might end up breaking your door down!"

The unbridled rage blazing in his eyes gave Spain pause. Romano was usually angry, or grumpy at the very least, and raising him as a boy had given Spain a lot of practice in gauging just how angry he could get. Normally, lateness when answering the door would have annoyed him, but this... Spain recognized it with a jolt. Romano wasn't usually angry in this certain way unless he was using it to cover up something else.

"...Romano?" Spain said cautiously, gently taking hold of Romano's fist. "Is something wrong?"

Romano's eyes widened, and he let go of Spain's shirt and tried to pull free, but his friend's grip was firm. "N-nothing," he growled. "You're just being stupid, like you always are. That's all. Now let go."

"No, Romano," Spain told him firmly. "You're worried about something, and I'm not letting go until you tell me what it is." When Romano didn't reply, he sighed. "At least tell me what you came to visit me for."

"_Nothing_," Romano repeated irately. "Just wanted to check on you, that's all. What, is that not allowed?" He glared defiantly at the older nation.

"Romano..."

"Look," Romano snapped, finally yanking his hand from Spain's grasp. "Just don't ask questions, all right? And..." He hesitated, his scowl deepening. "And if you... if you think you... I don't know, feel like something's wrong, like something's following you or... I don't know. Call me. Don't be a dumbass and assume it's nothing, just call me."

Spain's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Romano, what are you talking about?"

"I—" Romano's ringtone interrupted him, and he glanced down at the phone in his hand. He stiffened suddenly, and his eyes widened. "Vene–" His breath seemed to catch in his throat. "Oh, _shit_. I have to go." He pulled away and turned to leave.

"Roma—"

"Don't forget. Call me." Romano took off, sprinting down Spain's front steps and taking off to the east.

Spain could not shake the uneasy feeling Romano had left him with for the rest of the day.

* * *

><p>There were many, many things that could frighten Italy. Few things, however, terrified him as much as the problem he now faced.<p>

Germany wasn't answering his phone.

Italy ran flat out, not thinking as he pushed himself faster than he'd ever done before. With his right hand he held his phone to his ear, listening as it rang and rang and went to Germany's voicemail, for the third time in a row.

"_Guten tag, this is Germany. Leave a message._" Short and efficient, and the very last thing Italy wanted to hear. He dialed again and let it ring against his ear, only to hear the recorded message a fourth time. Even at his fastest he'd still taken too long getting here, he really should have called sooner, and what if something had happened?

_What if it was already too late?_

The question lent him speed, and he could only pray he wouldn't stumble. He couldn't afford to slow down now.

Italy skittered to a halt at the foot of Germany's front steps, glanced this way and that to check that the way was clear, and bounded up to his front door. He reached for the knob, only to freeze where he was and stare at it in alarm, hand hovering inches from the brass handle.

The door was ajar, the wood splintered and cracked where it had been forced open. Pale dust caked the handle. Italy ran a trembling finger through it, brought it to his face and sniffed, wrinkling his nose at the rotten-egg stench. Numb with dread, the nation sent a quick text to Romano, a nearly impossible task when his hands wouldn't stop trembling.

At that moment the sound of crashing furniture came from inside, and he froze in terror, staring at the door. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to find Romano, to bring back help, but by then it would be far too late, and that knowledge was all that kept him from fleeing.

A familiar voice cried out as if in pain, finally galvanizing the frightened nation into action. He knew what he was up against. The sulfur on the door had confirmed his fears.

He could run from guns and human armies, but this was something he had no choice but to fight.

The door banged against the wall as Italy darted in, following the sounds of the struggle to Germany's living room. His hand went to his jacket, and the flask he'd slipped into his pocket before he'd left home. Bracing himself, he burst into the living room and stumbled to a halt at what he saw.

Germany was pinned against the wall, disheveled and half-conscious. Blood trickled from his nose and mouth, his forehead, and a cut on his bruised cheek, staining the neckline of his shirt. His hands were held fast to the wall on either side of his head, the knuckles bruised and split. Halfway across the room, a middle-aged man with black pits for eyes stood with one blood-flecked hand outstretched.

The man turned his head at Italy's arrival, and the nation nearly fainted with horror when he saw his – _its_ – face. There had been a time, once, when he'd been blind to their real faces, and now he found himself wishing Romano had never shown him what they really looked like. Trembling, he averted his eyes from the unspeakable sight to Germany, who could stare at Italy with desperation in his eyes.

"Fel..." Germany choked out, unable to say his whole name. "_Run_." He had never, _ever_ given Italy that order before.

Italy had always been terrible at following Germany's orders.

Swiftly Italy slipped the flask from his pocket, opened it, and flung its contents into the demon's hideous, twisted face, all in one fluid movement.

An ear-splitting scream tore itself from the demon's throat. It crumpled to its knees, hands flying to its black eyes as pale smoke rose from the skin where the liquid had landed. Suddenly freed, Germany slumped to the floor, mouth open as if he couldn't breathe.

"_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus _..." Italy spoke Latin for the first time in a long while, phrases that Romano had bullied him into memorizing. The creature's scream reached a fever pitch as Italy carried on, it threw back its head, and before the nations' eyes a cloud of black smoke poured from its mouth and rose toward the ceiling.

Italy backed away, the incantation still tumbling from his lips. Sending it back where it belonged was always the hard part, and the holy water had been his only weapon. He spoke the Latin as fast as he could, until the cloud of ugly smoke billowed toward him. It surrounded him, choking off the rest of the words as he staggered backward until the wall halted his retreat. Dimly he heard Germany calling to him, but with the smoke all around he could see nothing, could feel nothing beyond the sickening feeling of wrong, wrong,_ wrong_. A wisp of it was reaching for him, heading straight for his eyes...

Another voice rang out, deeper and harsher than Italy's high-pitched tone. "_Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine!_" The smoke withdrew, twisting as though in pain, and Italy flung himself away from the wall, around the suffocating cloud to where Germany stood over the former vessel's limp form. He stopped a few paces away from Germany and turned back, relieved.

Romano stood in the doorway, looking as unkempt and out of breath as if he'd sprinted the whole way. "_Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos!_" There was a flash of light from within the cloud of smoke, and it vanished into thin air.

* * *

><p>Germany's face throbbed and stung, he could taste bile in his mouth, and he had no idea just <em>what the fuck<em> was going on, but all three problems had taken a back seat when Italy had thrown himself clear of the smoke and the noxious cloud had disappeared without a trace. His heart was in his throat, but he stumbled forward a few steps and placed his hands on Italy's shoulders, gently turning him around. Questions. Good God, he had so many questions.

Italy met his eyes with a quiet gasp. "Ve, Germany, you're hurt," he said, reaching toward Germany's battered face.

"I..." He wished his mind would stop making that annoying ringing noise. It was hard enough to think straight already. "What—what _was_ that?"

Heavy footsteps alerted him to the other Italy's approach. "Back off a second, asshole," Romano snapped.

Dazed, Germany could only release Italy and step back, wrapping his arms lightly around his middle in an almost unconscious gesture of fear. (He self-consciously disguised it by crossing his arms, but the others seemed to take no notice either way.) He watched silently as Italy stood still and his brother held his face lightly in his hands to give him a once-over. Romano's hands were trembling slightly against Italy's face, but Germany said nothing. He was shaking at least twice as much, after all.

That thing... that human shaped _thing_ that he could only barely recognize as one of his... but it couldn't _possibly_ be one of his... it had attacked him, without even touching him, and it had nearly... he didn't even know. Just looking at it, staring into its stark black eyes... he had never before seen anything that felt so vile, so _wrong_. Shuddering, Germany bowed his head, trying to stave off nausea.

After a few seconds, Romano let go of Italy and smacked him hard on the back of the head. "You _idiot_!" he yelled furiously, shattering the tense silence. "Am I just surrounded by them? First Spain, now you—"

"Spain?" Italy interrupted, as Germany quietly retreated into his own thoughts. "What happened with Spain?"

"Nothing," Romano assured him quickly. "Nothing... nothing like this. He's fine." He scowled again and continued his tirade. "But _you_. What the _fuck_ were you thinking, Veneziano? Going up against that thing by yourself? Are you trying to get yourself killed? Or _worse_?"

"_M-mi dispiace_, Romano," Italy stammered. "I thought... I thought..." He sighed. "I wasn't thinking. But Germany wasn't answering his phone, and after America, I thought maybe something bad had happened. And it did."

Wait... America? Germany blinked, mentally clawing his way out of his daze. What did all this have to do with America? Another question to add to the millions he already had.

Before he could decide which to ask first, a casual, British-accented voice spoke up from the doorway, scaring the living daylights out of him. "Of course it did," came the lazy drawl. "Well done, both of you. Saved me a job."

The three nations started and looked up to see a short, stocky man standing there with his hands clasped behind his back. Germany stared at him, wide-eyed. He hadn't even heard him come in.

The real surprise came when Italy sidestepped, placing himself directly between Germany and their grim-faced visitor. It was a small, reflexive, entirely protective gesture the likes of which Germany had never seen Italy make, ever.

Germany himself was shaking like a leaf, wide-eyed and on the verge of going into shock, and _Italy_ was the one showing a backbone? How the hell was that possible?

Romano, on the other hand, stepped forward aggressively, his hair curl jagged with anger. "You lying piece of _shit_!" he snarled at the stranger. "We had a _deal_!" He spat out the word as though it tasted foul. "And your end was to keep your filthy bastards away from us!"

Stepping back a pace, the man held up both hands, though it was less a yielding gesture and more a carefree shrug. "Hey, I've been keeping it. Trouble is, every now and then someone just _has_ to try and be cute. You know how underlings are." He paused. "Oh... wait, you're Italy. So no, you don't, do you?"

Germany's eyes narrowed. This man was no nation, he could tell that much, but somehow he knew about them. With a chill he recalled the feeling of wrongness that had lingered about his attacker, and this man (was he even human?) practically oozed with it. Whoever he might be, Germany did not like his tone. Shoving down his fear (he was afraid, he was scared _shitless_, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this way), Germany stepped forward. "Who the hell do you think—"

He was stopped by a hand on his chest—Italy's. "Don't," his friend murmured. To the visitor he swallowed hard and spoke. "C-Crowley." He paused, clenching his jaw, and when he spoke again he didn't stutter. "How many?"

"Only six of 'em are gunning for you lot," the man—Crowley—replied. He paused. "Well, four, now. Your friends across the pond took one down a few hours ago. Three, if you don't count the ringleader. In case you hadn't noticed, she's already got one."

Alarm bells went off in Germany's mind. Already got one? What did that mean?

"Thought so," Romano spat.

Crowley continued as if he hadn't heard. "And that's not counting the hundreds that are taking advantage of the resulting chaos to indulge themselves, or the ones that don't have the balls to disobey me directly, but do have the balls to settle for aiding and abetting. I can't begrudge them that, though you may if you feel you need to." He shrugged. "So I hope you boys are stocking up on crosses."

Romano bristled. "Fuck you. You're lucky I don't use one on you right now."

"We could," Italy added. "Technically, you've broken the deal."

There was a split-second flash of something in Crowley's eyes, before he scowled deeply. "Believe me," he said, his voice eerily calm. "Once you send her back to me, her fate will be whispered by mothers in dark places to frighten their young." He nodded to the unconscious man at Germany's feet. "You're off to a good start already."

Before Germany's eyes, Crowley vanished.

Both brothers visibly relaxed. "I fucking hate that bastard," Romano growled.

"It's easy to pretend I'm not scared of him," Italy remarked, his restraining hand dropping to his side. "Because I know he's more scared of us."

Germany found his voice. "What the hell just happened?"

Before he could receive an answer, Italy's phone rang. With a swipe of his thumb, Italy put the caller on speaker. "_Pronto_."

England's familiar voice answered him grimly. "_I hope you'll be ready to go by tonight_."

* * *

><p><strong>That's the last we'll be seeing of Spain. Bye, Spain! Also I made a reference that some people might get. So yay.<strong>


	7. Ghost Towns

**Wow. Okay, you guys, I am so sorry, and I've probably lost like a bunch of followers, but don't worry, this fic's not dead by a long shot. I had a very disappointing summer in terms of writing and being productive, and I am very very very very very very very very very very very sorry about that. I won't pull a crap hiatus like that on you guys again if I can help it.**

**On with the show.**

* * *

><p>"<em>I-I am,<em>" came Italy's shaky reply. "_I mean, we are._"

England gripped his phone tightly, anxiety taking over. "Italy? What's wrong?"

There was a note of fear and weariness in the other nation's tone. "_We just got rid of one of them,_" Italy replied. "_And Crowley came._"

England straightened up at this news. "Did he tell you anything useful?" England asked. "He didn't say much in the way of information when I contacted him yesterday."

Another voice spoke up from the other end of the call; apparently Italy had his phone on speaker, too. "_Who's Crowley?_" the familiar voice demanded. "_What's going on? What was that?_"

"Is that Germany?" England asked. "What's he doing there? Did Prussia tell him?"

"_Potato head was attacked,_" Romano's voice spoke up. "_Tell Prussia to get his_ fucking _act together._"

England's jaw tightened. "I _thought_ he was setting up defenses around his brother."

"_What?!_" Romano barked. "_I thought he was with you!_"

"I've been sneaking around Switzerland's house, do you honestly think I'd bring _Prussia_ along?" England retorted. "I'll find him later. What did Crowley say?"

Italy answered quickly, as if preempting further grumbling from his brother. "_According to the King of Hell, there's four more counting the one that got to America, plus hundreds that are either helping them or taking advantage to wreak havoc in the States._"

"Fuck," England growled. "You'd think Lucifer's replacement would be better about keeping his lot in check."

"_Stop avoiding my questions!_" Germany broke in, in a tone that suggested that he was trying for angry and coming up with frightened instead. "_What the hell are you three talking about?_"

"We're talking about demons, Germany," England told him flatly. May as well be straight with him, if he'd been attacked. "We're talking about the Judeo-Christian Hell. We're talking about a deal that five of us made with the demon in charge; as long as we don't bother him, he keeps his demons from bothering us." With a sigh, England pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's what it was supposed to be, anyway. Apparently one of them got ideas, and several others followed. She has America. If we don't get rid of her, his entire country comes crashing down." It made him sick to say that, but it was the truth. "And _that must not happened_."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. He thought he heard a sigh.

"_You say the five of you,_" Germany said finally. "_What five?_"

"The Italies and myself, of course," England replied. "Along with America and Prussia."

"_My brother? Why—?_"

"He represents a religious order," England explained. "But that's not important right now. If America dies, then we're all fucked; that's global interdependence for you. And if there're still three of those things going after nations, then we're even more fucked."

Over the speaker, he could hear a quiet rush of barely intelligible German, followed by uneven footsteps and Italy's voice. "_It's okay, Germany, it's going to be okay, just sit down, you're safe now._"

England waited patiently.

"_W-we have to find him, now,_" Italy said finally. "_America, I mean. We have to fix this before it gets any worse._"

"_Clear out the other bastards, too,_" Romano growled.

"Yes, and as to the the pair of hunters we were recommended," England went on, "I recognize the names. It's those two that America was bragging about, when we first made the deal. The Winchesters."

"_Winchesters?_" Italy echoed. "_Romano, didn't your friend always talk about them?_"

There was a brief silence. "_I... suppose we can't clear out hundreds of demons with just four or five of us,_" Romano muttered reluctantly.

"How is Germany doing?" England asked.

"_He's all right for now,_" Italy answered cautiously.

"_We'll demon-proof the place before we leave,_" Romano added.

"Good." England replied curtly. "Now listen, Canada and Japan are already with them, but..." He sighed. "It seems France has gotten caught in this as well, somehow, and he refuses to leave. I'll set up another meeting place where I can send the two of you. With a little luck, this will be over quickly."

"_Ve, we'll finish up here,_" Italy told him. "_I think the host is waking up. Bye, England._" The call cut off.

England promptly dialed another number, face grim. Prussia had a lot of explaining to do.

* * *

><p>No one had spoken since they'd left the motel.<p>

Dean, Sam could guess, was probably still stewing about the car they were currently using. He hated minivans, which wasn't altogether unreasonable. No self-respecting hunter wanted to be caught dead in a soccer-mom-mobile.

Oh, yeah, and he probably still wasn't thrilled to have the other two along, either.

Sam, for his part, had more or less accepted it. No one ever considered them in the need-to-know, and even if it was annoying, it hadn't gotten them permanently killed yet. It was normal. For now, he could accept it. Maybe with a little time, he and Dean could figure out what these two were hiding on their own; they hadn't made it this far by being stupid.

He flipped down the passenger side mirror and pretended to check his reflection while observing their other passengers. Not too subtle, but it was better than twisting around and staring at them.

Kiku Honda looked no different then he normally did. It was starting to get just a little bit creepy. Sam had seen the young man's expression change exactly twice, once when describing the demon's intentions, and again when grabbing Francis from behind in an admirable but futile attempt to hold him still. Even now, his dark eyes were unreadable, his face emotionless. Earlier, when they'd had a moment alone, Dean had muttered something about ninjas. The comparison was clear.

Matthew Williams was also hard to read, but for an entirely different reason. Actually, he was clearly failing to follow Kiku's example; the problem was that he just looked so _plain_. Sam was having trouble just focusing on his face without losing interest or getting distracted by a bush they passed on the side of the road. After a moment of intense concentration, Sam managed to register his expression and body language. The kid was stone-faced, but there was a tightness around his jaw as though his teeth were clenched. His eyebrows were relaxed, but his eyes blazed. One hand gripped his seat, nails digging into the upholstery. The other was curled tightly in the thick scruff fur of the white bear, which lay nestled in his lap.

What Kiku was thinking at the moment was anyone's guess. Matthew, on the other hand, was very obviously pissed.

Sam was pretty sure he understood why. The hug had been a dead giveaway; whoever Francis was, or had been, the hug Matthew had given him was the kind of hug Sam would give Dean.

Or... or Bobby.

So yeah, Sam was pretty sure he understood.

"You sure we need to go north?" Dean spoke up so suddenly that Sam nearly started in his seat. His brother had nudged his way into the right lane, intending to take the next opportunity to leave the highway and stop for gas.

"Yes." Matthew's voice was terse. His eyes were fixed on the bear in his lap. "She's going after whole nations. Closest one she can get to when she's done with America is Canada."

"What about Mexico?" Sam pointed out.

"Canada's really big."

"I still don't get this 'whole nation' thing," Dean broke in, as Matthew switched his attention to his window. "Can you at least tell us how it works?"

There was a moment of silence, broken only by a soft, nervous growl from Kumajiro. Sam watched his brother from the corner of his eye; Dean was tensing with annoyance.

"To be honest, we are not sure either," Kiku finally replied, in the same smooth, emotionless tone with which he said everything. "We are hoping that Arthur might explain things when he arrives."

"Really?" Dean replied skeptically. "Because you sure sounded like you knew what was going on before."

"It is not easy for me to admit ignorance," came the even reply. His voice was as blank as his face.

"That's a gas station," Matthew spoke up suddenly. Dean, having found an exit, was pulling off the road into a small collection of establishments that barely deserved the title of a "town". Sure enough, there was a visible Chevron sign up ahead.

"...Yes?" Dean answered, sounding bemused.

"This is a major highway, right? A lot of motorists."

"And?" Sam prompted.

"It's closed." Matthew paused, opening his window to get a better view. "And so's the Super 8 behind it. And the Denny's. And that McDonalds – maple, Alfred wouldn't be happy to see that."

"That can't be right," Sam muttered, noting the name on the exit sign. "Didn't we stop here a week ago, Dean?"

"I think so," his brother said absently, as he drove past newly shut down chain restaurants, stores, and gas stations. Beyond the pitiful financial state of the place, there were practically no cars in sight; in fact, the only ones that Sam could see were quickly pulling out onto the highway.

The place was deserted.

"Holy crap." Dean's eyebrows were furrowed. "I mean, it's not like this place was jumping, but how does a ghost town pop up this fast?"

"I don't think we'll find out much by hanging around here," Matthew murmured, but Sam barely heard him.

"Let's try the next stop," he suggested. "We have enough gas?"

"We should," Dean replied, and pulled back out onto the highway.

As it happened, the next four exits fared no better. Dean was worriedly eying the fuel light by the time he pulled off at the fifth, where a mercifully still-open Texaco stood just across the road.

As Dean guided the minivan to a halt next to the pump, Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Running out of gas on the side of the road, surrounded by ghost towns, was something he was glad to avoid. Beside him, Dean was already climbing out, muttering about how suburban soccer moms didn't need good mileage. Matthew hopped out as well, and shut the door as quickly as he could before any bystanders could catch sight of the bear.

"Bathroom," the kid said shortly, and jogged across the street to the Food Mart, Kiku darting to catch up. Sam exchanged a single glance with his brother before following them. Ever prepared, he hid his knife under his jacket, within easy reach. He doubted that he'd have to use it on either of them, but one never knew where a demon might pop up, especially during times like these. Frankly, going to the bathroom armed was a fact of life for any reasonably experienced hunter.

* * *

><p>Sam Winchester was definitely there to keep an eye on them. A shadow would have been a cause for concern for most people, but most people weren't Canada.<p>

The nation kept his mouth shut in the bathroom, didn't make a noise, and even tried to quiet his footsteps. He normally didn't have to put much effort into this sort of thing, but hunters like the Winchesters made a career of noticing things that the rest of humanity was blind to. So he simply relaxed, kept quiet, and finally, after washing his hands, slipped his phone out of his pocket. It was an experiment; anyone with their guard up like Sam probably would have called him on it.

The human was looking straight at him, and his expression never changed from that strange mixture of boredom and wariness. Steeling himself, Canada looked down at his phone and checked his messages.

He watched Sam out of the corner of his eye. The human blinked, opened his mouth as if to speak, and Canada's heart leapt to his throat.

Then Japan pulled down a paper towel, and the resulting rattle and rustle proved to be a sufficient distraction. The human glanced to the other nation, and Canada knew he would promptly forget that his attention had ever been elsewhere.

That was what everyone did. For once, it was a blessing.

He had one message, from France. _Has England contacted you with a meeting place yet?_

Canada's thumb brushed over the screen as he sent his reply. _No. I told him what happened with you. He's pretty pissed._

There was a pause, and then –

_:P_

_I'll contact you when he does, _Canada replied, fighting the urge to snicker. He considered continuing the conversation, but he decided not to press his luck while Sam was in the room.


	8. Confrontational

**Here's the next chapter real fast because I'm sorry for making you guys wait. 0_0**

**Anyway, I was going back through the fic and I noiced that I was making a big consistent mistake with Japan's dialogue; whenever I had him use other nations' human names, he used their first names. Which is a pretty big no-no in Japan unless you're really really close to them, not to mention Japan himself is such a formal little thing, so I doubt he'd call Canada and England Matthew and Arthur, respectively. But I fixed it! :D And added more consistency to whether I use their nation names or human names in the narration.**

* * *

><p>If either of their tagalongs had any opinion of Sam following them, they didn't show it, and soon enough the three of them were wordlessly making their way back between the snack aisles. Through the glass doors, Sam could see Dean waiting for them by the car.<p>

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and saved his life.

Sam darted forward, at the same time that Kiku whipped around in front of him. He could feel a slight breeze on his neck, which meant that the attack from behind had missed him by mere inches. It seemed he hadn't been the only one to hide weapons on his person for a bathroom trip, since Kiku was dashing past him with a tantou in his hand. Sam spun around to follow him as he passed. The iron knife flashed, and the mousy-haired woman who had previously been scrutinizing the candy bars now drew back with a pained snarl. Kiku advanced, grim-faced, clearly intending to drive her further back, when another gas station customer launched himself over the shelves from the adjacent aisle.

Sam moved on instinct, whipping his own knife out and stepping to Kiku's side, weapon raised. Gravity did the rest; the demon landed on the blade, light blazed within it, and it slumped limply the rest of the way to the floor.

The prickling goosebumps turned into a dark, sickening foreboding that nearly suffocated Sam in perfectly good air. For a moment he fought for breath, wondering what the problem was; he never usually had trouble controlling his fear. Forcing breath into his lungs, he looked to the rest of the customers, and the middle-aged cashier at the register. Every pair of eyes was fixed upon them, darkening to black.

Of course it couldn't have been a coincidence that they'd managed to find one open gas station while the car was running on fumes. Miracles hadn't worked in their favor since Cas.

Demons descended upon them, and in a matter of moments Matthew was cut off and surrounded. Sam ducked a swinging blow, grabbing the attacker's wrist as it whistled over his head. Then, after sliding the knife between its ribs, he pivoted, turned, and flung the now-dying demon straight into the possessed woman who had Kiku distracted. He whirled again, knife upraised, and made ready to charge to Matthew's side. It was easier said than done; now wary of the knife, their attackers were more careful when confronting him, and soon he was fighting just to keep hold of his weapon when a few demons attempted to tear it from his grasp.

Kiku took a decidedly different approach.

Sam was understandably distracted at the time, but still, from the corner of his eye, he saw the much smaller man vault nimbly onto a demon's shoulders and launch himself over their heads. Judging by Matthew's startled yelp, he landed right next to him.

Yeah. Ninja. He could definitely see it now.

The glass door swung open, rattling when it made forceful contact with the demon closest to it. A shotgun blast sent the cashier flying as Dean came storming in, Kumajiro at his heels with a katana and a tire iron gripped in his teeth. For a moment the demons turned to stare at the new arrival. Sam saw his chance and snatched it, stabbing left and right with the knife to reach the others. The unlucky few who were too slow to dodge slumped to the ground around him.

Suddenly the suffocating feeling from before returned full force, and he nearly doubled over in shock and peculiar pain. The shotgun blasts stopped, and Sam could tell from the look on his brother's face that he was feeling the same thing.

The last time Sam could remember feeling this way, he'd been about to be possessed himself._ What the hell..._

Someone grabbed him, lifted him like a rag doll, tore the knife from his grasp, and flung him into the snack shelves. Dazed and winded, he tumbled to the floor and fought for breath. He forced down his dizziness and looked up, braced for another attack, only to find Matthew standing in front of him, tire iron in hand. Kiku had his katana and was standing to the side, frowning. Warily, Sam followed their gazes to see the demon who had attacked him, now standing and flipping the knife lazily in one hand.

Looking at him, Sam noted two things. The first was that he looked pretty much exactly like Matthew, barring a shorter haircut. The second was that simply looking at the guy made him feel dizzy and... a number of things, really.

He felt _angry._ Almost as angry as if he was seeing Dean forced to be this bastard's host. Angry enough that if he hadn't been dizzy and nauseous, he would have pounced on the demon in an attempt to rip it out with his bare hands. Without any demon blood in his system, that would have been impossible, but he felt quite pissed enough to try. Holy _crap_ was he angry. And nauseous. Very nauseous. It was a weird combination, and Sam wasn't sure if it was possible to vomit from pure rage, at least until he did so.

Alfred Jones (if that was his real name, and Sam had his doubts) laughed at the mess he'd made all over the already grimy floor. "Holy shit, that poor bastard must be patriotic as _fuck_. Or – wait, Sam Winchester's one of old whatsisname's demon kids. So he's just sensitive as fuck, then. Sucks for you, dunnit?"

"So help me God if you don't get the _fuck_ out of my brother right now I will make the Burning of Washington look like a fucking matchstick." However angry Sam may have felt, it was nothing compared to the chilling rage in Matthew's snarl.

Jones barely spared Matthew a glance."With what, a tire iron? Pathetic. No wonder this stupid shit barely even acknowledges you. Who the hell even knows why you're doing this for someone who doesn't even like you."

The kid responded by cursing in French. Menace dripped from his voice like spittle.

"Whatever that means," Jones responded dismissively. "I mean, forget not liking you. He barely knows you exist. Must be frustrating, hm?"

At this point, Dean apparently felt that the only reasonable response to this would be kneecapping him.

The shot drove Jones to his knees with a hideous shriek, and Matthew and Kiku simultaneously lunged for him, only to be cut off once more by the rest of the present demons. Sam struggled to his feet, intent on getting his knife back. His mind raced furiously; if their two tagalongs could hold the other demons back, then he could get to Jones while he was still down –

The entire store flooded with dark gray smoke.

"_No!_" Sam roared, because no, no, no, he couldn't escape now, not with the knife, not with one of their few surefire weapons against these damn monsters –

The individual masses of smoke converged into one as the demons made a break for the exit. Every glass window and door shattered, sending shards raining down upon them.

Then the smoke was gone, and with it went Alfred Jones and Ruby's knife.

* * *

><p>"Veneziano." Standing on tiptoe in the yard, Romano poked his head through the open kitchen window and craned his neck to try to see into the living room. A half-empty bag of salt dangled from his hand. "Hey! Veneziano!"<p>

His younger brother darted into the kitchen a moment later. "Are you finished?"

With a nod, Romano lifted the bag through the window and set it on the counter. "There was already an unfinished ring around the place. I just had to refresh it, pour some over the walkway to finish it. You?"

"Devil's Traps in front of all the doors and windows," his brother replied, fidgeting nervously. "Including that one."

Romano glanced downward; sure enough, the distinctive circle was drawn in chalk on the floor at the foot of the sink. "We're done here, then. We'd better get to America. Where's England?"

"Oh, he texted me," Veneziano answered. "He's still setting up magical protection and surveillance. He's in Austria with Prussia."

In spite of himself, Romano snickered. "Ahem, uh, right. Well, let's go. Might as well get this over with." Nimbly he climbed in through the window, shuffled carefully around the sink, and dropped lightly to the floor beside the Devil's Trap.

"Okay." Veneziano hesitated, crossing his arms. "Um... I'll just make sure Germany's okay, then."

"Has he moved from the couch since the last time you checked?" Romano asked dryly.

"Well... no." Worriedly, Veneziano shot a worried look back toward the living room. "He's just sitting there, holding his head. He won't even talk to me."

Romano gave his brother a grim look through half-lidded eyes. "As much as I'd like to mock him for it, I don't blame him," he said reluctantly. "I remember the first time I dragged _you_ out from under a demon. I couldn't get you to talk for weeks."

There was a haunted look in his brother's eyes as he glanced back again. "I remember..."

For a moment, Romano scowled at him. "...Fine," he said finally. "Go fuss over him, then we're leaving."

Veneziano nodded wordlessly and went back to the living room. Arms crossed, Romano followed him as far as the doorway and stood watching him with a frown on his face. Sure enough, Germany sat hunched on the sofa, his forehead in his hands, staring silently at the floor.

Fortunately, his brother was quick about it, pulling the barely responsive nation into a brief hug. "Stay here, okay?" Veneziano said quietly. "We'll be back when this is over. I _promise_."

Romano's throat felt uncomfortably tight. His little brother always sounded so serious whenever he was making a promise to return, even to Romano himself, regardless of the reason for his leaving. _Ve, I'm just going to buy pasta. I'll be back, I promise. I'm going to visit Germany, I promise I'll be back soon._

He always kept it, though. And he would keep it this time, too, if Romano had anything to say about it.

* * *

><p>A full two hours had passed before Germany sat bolt upright, his blue eyes suddenly clear and focused.<p>

"What the _fuck_ am I doing."


	9. Trump Cards

By the time the group had made it to the van and were safely on the road again, moving farther and farther away from that fucking gas station with each second, Canada had once more retreated to the safety behind his shield of virtual invisibility. They had all been lucky to escape with minor injuries (by a nation's reckoning, and by a hunter's as well, he imagined), cuts and bruises, minor gashes that might warrant stitches but could probably do without them. It was lucky that Dean Winchester had arrived comparatively late; none of his hurts required any immediate patching up, which left him free to drive.

Canada sat crosslegged in his seat, hunched forward with his hands to his face, fingers gently pressed on either side of his nose. His glasses were off and safely out of the way, hanging from his T-shirt collar. His battered face throbbed as he shut his watering eyes and reminded himself that this was nothing, that he'd had far, far worse before. Then, steeling himself –

_Snap. _"_Maple!_"

He sucked in a breath through his mouth, a quiet gasp, as pain shot from his broken nose to the rest of his face, then his entire head. When the stars had faded from his vision, he leaned over and angled himself so that he could see his own face in the rearview mirror well enough to assess his repair job.

Well. It looked like a nose again. Relatively straight. Good enough. Time to start thinking about the real pressing issues.

America. He'd seen America, for the first time in... was it two weeks now? Two and a half? It was stupid; he often went months without seeing his brother, and now he was counting off the days like one of those stupid signs in front of hazard-ridden old factories. _18 Days Since Last America Sighting_. At least he could change it back to zero now.

What was more, he hadn't had the chance to engage America in any way, beyond the exchange of rather meaningless words. Stupid demon had left before he'd had the chance to fight the damn thing. England said that demonic possession led to an increase of strength and agility, and if America could already bench-press fully-grown bison and tow cars one-handed...

Well, on the bright side, it might lead to power incontinence. Most demons wouldn't be used to handling a nation, especially one like America. How difficult was it for humans to fight their control? Was it possible at all? Would nations be stronger, in that respect?

He certainly couldn't see America sitting there, placidly trapped in his own head, while a demon wore him like a cheap suit and wreaked havoc. If he knew his brother at all, he was probably fighting this bitch every step of the way.

Or at the very least, he was complaining. Which wasn't necessarily useless; any inconvenience to the demon was a plus in Canada's book.

In any case, it was probably useless thinking about it. Two and a half weeks was ample time for the demon to get used to any inconvenience. Possibly. It was hard to tell with America; he was pretty damn good at inconveniencing people.

_Better watch out, you fucking demon,_ Canada thought absurdly. _If you're not careful he'll dress up like a racial stereotype and toss your favorite drink into the ocean._

Advantage or not, he was going to have to get that fucking knife back. It was one of the most effective weapons the Winchesters apparently had against these demons. He'd heard them whispering something about a Colt, and he didn't know anything about that, but knives didn't run out of bullets.

The best way was to draw America out, somehow. And, Canada reasoned bitterly, the best bait they had was him. She presumably didn't give a damn about the Winchesters, and she'd barely even looked at Japan, but France had confirmed that Canada was her next target. Hooray.

Besides the best bait, he was reasonably confident that he was the best weapon as well, aside from the Italies and for an entirely different reason. The Italies presumably fared the best against demons, but Canada knew that no one would fare better against America than him. It was not something that he admitted often.

He still phased in and out of their attention, Japan's included, and he was willing to encourage it for now, what with all the mistrust going on. Besides, he had France to fall back on if he needed. He considered texting him again. The last time had been a close call, but he was fairly certain he could stay under Sam's radar again.

It was then that the Winchester spoke up, his voice mild enough to barely hide the hint of steel at its core. "So, Matthew. Who were you texting in the bathroom?"

Canada's heart dropped below his ribcage. "_Tabarnak_."

A miracle occurred; Japan's phone vibrated, and he slipped it out of his pocket to answer it. "_Moshimoshi_." He paused, listening. "..._Hai_. Understood." He hung up. "In a few hours we will reach the Jackson exit. It leads to a rest stop with a small diner. The diner is our meeting place."

"As for me, I was texting Arthur to ask him if he had our meeting place yet," Matthew lied, trying his best not to look too relieved. While he was talking, his own phone vibrated in his pocket. "I'm surprised you noticed that. Most don't."

"So we're finally gonna meet this Arthur Kirkland," Dean mused. "Well, crap."

"Not yet." Japan shook his head. His face, if anything, looked even more blank than before, but it was a delicate, careful sort of blank. If Canada didn't know better, he could have sworn that Japan was doing his very best not to smile.

"What's there to be happy about?" Sam asked abruptly. Canada stared at him, and Japan blinked but did not comment on the human's observation, which to Canada, was beginning to get unsettling.

"I did not say there was anything to be happy about, Mr. Winchester," Japan replied smoothly. "But Mr. Kirkland will not be joining us quite yet."

While Japan had the brothers' attention, Canada surreptitiously checked his own phone. His pulse skipped a beat when he saw that the text had come from America's cell.

_Want that knife back? Come and get it, you little bitch. :)_

That show-offy _bitch_.

Dean looked irritated, and suspicious. "What the hell's keeping him?"

"He's in Europe, making sure there're no leaks before he leaves," Canada replied, hoping he sounded sufficiently, annoyingly cryptic. "He said he'd send the It – the Vargas brothers first, in the hopes that we could end this quickly, without him." Kumajiro nipped him meaningfully, and he hoped, without much real hope, that the Winchesters had missed his slip-up.

If they did, neither of them brought it up. "Who're the Vargas brothers?" was all Sam asked.

"The best we've got for fighting demons," Canada replied, and heard a faint whistling noise as the irony went right over the humans' heads. Japan smiled slightly, which was probably his version of laughing out loud.

"We'd better find Jones fast," Dean growled. "We need that knife back."

Canada settled back in his seat. If he played his cards right and was fast and didn't get himself possessed, he could get that knife back himself. It was only fair he do something nice for these humans; he didn't like hiding things this way, especially not from people they were asking for help. And maybe, if he did this for them, they might mistrust him and Japan a tiny bit less, and he could stop worrying every waking second that they would stop at nothing to find out who they were.

It was worth a shot. Maybe.

If he succeeded, anyhow.

* * *

><p>Contrary to what most people might believe, the fastest way to get from one European country to another is not by car, or even by plane, but by doing That Thing.<p>

In truth, none of the nations knew how That Thing worked, or why they could do it. No one really questioned it, either, or gave it much thought. It didn't even have a name; most just called it "that thing that we can do." Any nation would have been at a loss as to explain how to do it. They simply walked, or ran... and in minutes they could reach the next country. It was as if they had a secret, private road that humans could not find. It was magical, for all they knew. It was simply... That Thing.

It was also how the two halves of Italy left Germany's house at nearly midnight and found themselves near Austria's in under two minutes. They might have been faster, but full backpacks weighed them down, and Italy lagged behind. He couldn't help it; he was in no hurry to rush into almost certain death.

"Hurry up," Romano said crossly, halting to wait for his brother across the street from Austria's house. "England's probably waiting already! You did remember to bring a cross, didn't you?"

Italy wilted beneath his brother's glare, shifting his backpack on his shoulders. "Yes," he replied defensively. "I wouldn't forget."

"Show me," Romano ordered.

With a slight sigh, because his big brother could be such a mother hen sometimes, Italy unzipped his jacket to reveal a German Iron Cross hanging around his neck from a chain. "I-it should work, right?" he asked meekly, hoping Romano wouldn't throw it away like last time.

"It... it should," Romano affirmed grudgingly. "Since it's still a religious symbol... fucking Teutonic Order..." He scowled. "Wish you'd gone with a regular crucifix like me."

Italy held the cross firmly, feeling it warm in his hand. "This one's special."

Romano rolled his eyes. "Fuck, whatever. Let's go, England said he and Prussia'd meet us in the trees behind the aristobastard's house." With his own pack slung over one shoulder, Romano started across the street. Italy jogged to catch up.

"Hurry up," Romano snapped.

Italy cringed. "Sorry."

"And buck up, little brother. Demons are way nastier than me."

"I know." He wished he didn't. It just made him dread this whole venture even more. He'd come within centimeters of being possessed once already, and even before that, he'd barely convinced himself not to run to safety and leave Germany to a demon. With a stab of guilt, he wondered how he could have even considered that an option. He was immensely glad he hadn't in the end, and he never would have forgiven himself if he had, but... Italy wasn't sure if he could keep his nerve like that a second time.

At least he had Romano. As long as Romano was there, Italy knew he'd be okay. As long as Romano was there, Italy had no reason to run.

Instinctively he sped up, keeping close to his brother's back. He could hear plastic bottles clattering in his pack, their contents of holy water sloshing as they jostled against against the iron blades and the container of chalk. Without warning, Romano slowed in front of him, and Italy nearly collided with his back.

Romano swore. "Watch it, dumbass, there's barrier." Sure enough, there in the grass surrounding Austria's home, a thick line of salt was just barely visible in the moonlight. It extended all the way around the house, forming a protective circle. The brothers gave it a wide berth as they skirted the house.

There was a grove of trees on the other side of the mansion, which hopefully provided decent cover. It wouldn't do for Austria to glance out the window and see them. This would be far too difficult to explain.

Evidently, the trees did provide excellent cover, as Italy didn't even notice that England and Prussia were there until the two of them materialized, wraithlike, from the surrounding darkness.

Italy started and halted in his tracks when they appeared, momentarily alarmed. His hand flew to his cross on instinct before he recognized them.

"Good, you two made it," England greeted them. "Canada and Japan are probably waiting."

"I still don't see why you needed to send them in first," Romano growled. "We're gonna meet the Winchesters anyway."

England sighed. "Thought it'd be better to ease them into... well, dealing with us. They already don't trust us, and Italy is... well _Italy_, and no offense, you aren't exactly the most amiable of nations. Canada and Japan, at least, have some semblance of normalcy about them." He shrugged. "_I_ would have gone to meet them myself, but Canada and Japan were... insistent."

Italy was barely listening. His eyes were fixed on Prussia, who stood at England's left shoulder with a dark look on his pale face. The little nation found himself suddenly rigid, his shaking hands balling up into fists. His teeth ground together as he stared at Prussia, and he drew in a sharp breath against the sudden tightness in his chest.

It took him a moment to recognize it as anger.

Prussia glanced at him, looking mildly confused. "What is it?"

"Where were you?" Italy asked softly. His voice trembled, with anger or nervousness, he wasn't sure.

"What do you mean where was I?" Prussia bristled. "I've been working my ass off with England because Africa and Asia are _massive_–"

"I meant before!" Italy blurted out, his anger bubbling up to the surface. "Do you know how close that thing came to taking Germany? Why weren't you there to help him? Why didn't you tell one of _us_ he was alone?"

Prussia drew back as if he'd been struck, and Italy felt a small rush of satisfaction. "I–"

"If it weren't for me, he'd be the same as America!" Italy interrupted. "There was a gap in the salt ring you left, no defenses... if you weren't going to set things up properly, why didn't you stay with him?!"

"I hate both of you beer-swilling idiots, and I still think Veneziano's right," Romano added.

Prussia glared at him. "Hey, you have nothing to say when _you_ left _your_ brother to go check on Spain. And don't try to deny it, 'cause I know that's what you did."

"Oh, don't even!" Romano snarled. "My brother, unlike yours, knows what's going on and how to defend himself! And when he needed my help, I got there! You? Your phone was off, dickcheese!"

Prussia flinched again. "Fine!" he growled. "Fine, I fucked up, all right? I kept trying to set up barriers, but he kept sweeping the salt and the chalk lines away because he can't go five fucking minutes without cleaning! Hell, he caught me drawing a Devil's Trap on the living room ceiling and almost broke my nose! I was going to call England so he could use magic, but his phone was off because he was sneaking around at Switzerland's place! I thought..." He shut his eyes, paused as if holding something back, and went on furiously. "I thought I'd just step out for a _half hour_, no more than that. I needed to check on..." He let the sentence trail off and shook his head angrily. "Fucking _shit_, Romano, you of all people should get it."

"You went to see Hungary," Italy said dully, his anger fading to numbness. "You went to check on Hungary, and you left Germany by himself." He raised his eyes to meet Prussia's. "I was the only one who knew to help him. Me. Cowardly little North Italy." He swallowed his guilt and forced himself to continue. "Prussia, I almost ran away and left him. He didn't need me, he needed _you_."

Prussia held his gaze for only a moment before he looked away, his pale face flushed with shame. "...I don't have an excuse," he said at length. "I didn't think. Is... is he okay?"

"He's not hurt," Romano told him grudgingly. "But he is not fucking _okay_. What do you care, anyway? You haven't even checked on him."

"What do _I_ care?" Prussia echoed bitterly. "What do _you_ care? You don't even like my brother."

Romano squared up to him furiously. "I hate the bastard, but people like you make me _sick_. Why the fuck do you think we were born first, dumbass? So we could look out for _them!_" He jerked his head at Italy.

Prussia scowled at him. "Look, he's not a kid anymore, and he's been through a lot and done a lot, and I was stupid, _I know that_, but I just thought–

"You thought he'd be okay on his own while you went off and fucked around?" Romano cut him off viciously. "What, did you forget what happened the _last_ fucking time you did that?"

Prussia looked up, red eyes flashing dangerously. "_What_ did you just say? How _dare_ you!"

Italy felt a gentle tap on his arm. "A word?" England murmured. "May as well let them talk it out."

Nodding, Italy followed the other nation a short distance away, until Romano and Prussia's bickering had faded to a barely audible murmur. "W-what is it, England?"

England sighed and crossed his arms. "You're scared."

Suddenly the ground at Italy's feet seemed fascinating. He pursed his lips uncomfortably. "I'm always scared."

"But you're going anyway?"

Italy made an honest attempt to look England in the eye, and failed. "I don't want to."

"But you are. And never mind that you almost ran away. The important thing is, you didn't."

"I have to," Italy told him in a small voice. "Go, I mean. I can't not do it, because... well... I can't... there's almost no one to hide behind this time, and if I don't make this go away, it'll come after me, and I _can_ make this go away, because I know how, and, and..." His voice trailed off. "And it scares me."

"As much as I don't like to admit it, you and your brother are the best... equipped for this."

"You're wrong," Italy protested, shaking his head and continuing to address the ground. "It's just my brother. He's the one with the Vatican, not me. I-I just know because he made me learn."

England suddenly seized Italy by his jacket front, forcing him to look up. "That may be so, but you still know these things better than any of us, you're still more fluent in Latin than the rest of us will ever be, and _we need you_."

Italy stared at him, wide-eyed. "O-okay," he squeaked. "I know. But... but what do you want from me?"

"I want to make sure your head's in the game, Italy," England told him bluntly. "What are you most worried about, anyway? Push comes to shove, all you have to do is run, and no one – not even France – is better at retreating than you."

"That's just the thing, though!" Italy wrung his hands nervously. "Earlier... earlier when I was fighting the demon, I... it cornered me and I tried to run, but I couldn't because there was nowhere _to_ run, and if Romano hadn't gotten there, I'd be a vessel and Germany would be..." His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard. "What if I get cornered again, and Romano doesn't get there in time to help me?"

England averted his eyes, looking thoughtful. "...All right," he said after a moment. "If I give you another out, will you worry less?"

Italy blinked. "A... another out?"

"D'you have anything I can enchant?" England asked. "Perhaps a pendant or something?"

Hesitantly, Italy tugged the chain around his neck, freeing the Iron Cross from beneath his jacket. "Well, there's this, as long as it'll still work against demons."

"Perfect." England took hold of the cross. "Wish I'd thought to prepare something, but I'll have to make do with a quick job." He traced his fingertip over it, lips moving as he muttered under his breath. The cross glowed green for a moment, then returned to normal. "There. That should do it." He let the cross fall back against Italy's chest.

Italy hid it beneath his jacket again. "What did you do?"

"Simple enchantment," England replied. "Small transport spell, good for one use, one person. If you're in a really tight spot, just hold onto it and focus on where you need to go. It'll open a door for you."

"A-a door?"

"Yeah. You won't miss it."

"How do you know?"

"'Cos it'll be a glowing green hole in the fabric of space." England gave him a hard stare. "And remember, you'll only get one use out of it. Save it for when you really need it. Clear?"

Italy nodded vigorously. "I will. _Grazie_, England, but... why are you helping me like this?

"We've a bloody lot at stake," England replied grimly. "Italy's the best hope he's got, and that includes you." He jerked his head toward where Romano and Prussia stood waiting. "Now come on, let's get the pair of you to America."

Italy turned to follow England back, too quickly to notice the wisp of black smoke that followed them.

* * *

><p><strong>I have a proposal for you guys. I'm in college, I'm also looking into part-time jobs, I'm working on an original novel trilogy, and I basically don't know whether or not I might slip into another ridiculous hiatus again, because my posting schedule is in no way fixed. And I know there are quite a few of you following and reading this story. So what would you guys think of a Tumblr Ask Blog for this fic? At the very least, that way I'll have a way to give you guys content on a semiregular basis. I'll have anon asks open so you won't have to have a Tumblr to participate. I don't have one quite ready yet, but I have started setting it up just in case I get positive response to this.<strong>

**-Pit Viper Of Doom  
><strong>


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